


it's okay, he'll only be dead for a little while

by whatevermanj



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Violence, Clay | Dream Kills TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream Manipulates TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dead TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Insanity, Prisoner Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Sapnap Visits Clay | Dream in Prison (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:42:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatevermanj/pseuds/whatevermanj
Summary: Dream killed Tommy, and now he sits in this prison and mulls over everything that has happened, and who he has become, and what he is going to do now.
Kudos: 24





	it's okay, he'll only be dead for a little while

Dream was cold, at the moment. And wet, and dirty. He was covered in sweat, and a little blood, perhaps more than he assumed there would be, and some water, and above him the obsidian was crying. Weeping little tears that fell onto the floor, splashing in a puddle in front of him.

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

He wondered why the obsidian cried. Was there any reason to? Dream didn’t think so. Dream thought that the obsidian was being dramatic. This wasn’t actually that bad, being in a cell with him. After all he’s been there much longer than they have and he never cried. 

But the obsidian didn’t seem to care. It kept dripping away, glowing, purple droplets plummeting to the ground. 

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

Dream sighed, his head hitting the wall behind him. He wished he had his clock still. That way he’d know how long it had been, he could stare at it and be happy when it hit the middle. 

_ “He liked the clock too,” _ the obsidian whispered to him, and Dream’s hand curled into a fist, closing his eyes, listening. 

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

There was something soaking into his shoe, warm and slick, and as he looked over he saw the red shirt, which used to be red and white but was really just red now, and he sighed again, and he looked at his hair, which used to be blonde but was really just red now, and his face. 

Dream was no stranger to killing, obviously, but this was the first time he did it quite like this. This was the first time he felt the crunch as his fist sunk into bone and skin and flesh, the first time they had much time to scream before it happened--at least longer to scream than usual.

He begged for mercy, too. That was new. He never heard them beg--at least, not for long, because they died before they got the chance most times. He died before he got the chance last time, and the time before that. 

But he had the chance, and he did beg. What did he say? Did he say? “No?” “Stop it?” Did he say “please?” Maybe he should have said “please.” Maybe that would have stopped him. 

Or maybe not. Probably not. 

His face was bloody, disfigured. But his wounds weren’t swollen--maybe because he died too fast for them to swell. Maybe because by the time the bones crushed and the flesh ripped the heart had already given up, it’s steady thumping slowing, stopping. Which was ironic to Dream, because it took him so long to die in the first place. His face was bloody, messy, looked  _ wrong _ , but it certainly wasn’t swollen. It was easy to identify--anyone could tell this was Tommy, past the crushed eye sockets and the scarlet halo surrounding his hair, he looked almost normal. Normal little Tommy, bruised as usual. 

Dream’s hands hurt. He must have broken one of his bones when he did it. There were scabs, fresh blisters on his fingers that stung as he sat there, but the blood dripping down his thumb wasn’t his. 

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

He wondered, as he sat, when they would come get the body. Surely they knew by now--after all, Tommy was quite loud, quite annoying, they would certainly notice his absence in the voices coming from this prison. His little obsidian box. He wondered how Tubbo would react--Tommy’s precious little Tubbo. He wondered if he would cry, if he would scream. Would he even be able to react at all? What is the fitting thing to say to someone’s death? What is the proper face to make, the proper thing to do with one’s hands when realizing someone would be gone forever, what once was a breathing, talking person now a bloody, yet easily-identifiable mess on a cold floor? 

Sam would probably be the one to pick him up. He’d have crossbows aimed at him the entire time (perhaps Bad and Ant would be the ones holding it, he did hear they were guards now, which was probably a poor decision on Sam’s part), but of course Dream wouldn’t do anything. They’d tell him to move away from the body, and he would, crouching next to the chest which once had his books, and once had the cat sitting on it--honestly, if Tommy didn’t want to die he shouldn’t have killed the cat--and then he’d watch as Sam lifted his body from the ground. Tommy would be limp, and his bones would be twisted in all the wrong places as they lifted him up, carrying him to the lava, pulling him from the box. Perhaps Sam would feel guilty about it. After all, Dream wasn’t the only person Tommy begged to.

He should have taken Tommy out earlier. Now he was taking him out dead. How interesting that is. And of course, the entire time the blood would be dripping from Tommy, his hair, his face, his fingers. 

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

What would Bad think as he held the crossbow? What would Sapnap think? What would George--actually, he didn’t want to think about George. Sapnap would be furious, though, when he learned it. He’d take it as a sign that the Dream he knew was gone forever--chances are he’d actually try to kill Dream, which impressed him but didn’t surprise him, because he’s known Sapnap for a long time. 

Bad’s feelings would probably be complicated. After all, Bad was a very empathetic individual. He’d feel so much sorrow for Tommy’s death, he’d try to imagine how painful it must have been when he died because that would make him feel better about it. But he’d also feel bad for Dream, for what must have happened, what must have changed inside of him, to do this. This horrible, horrible thing. 

And he was right. Something had changed inside of Dream, something must have changed for this to happen. 

Well, of course he was always going to kill Tommy. After all, that was the plan from the second he told him that this would be his last visit, because he needed him to die for the plan, and he needed to follow the plan if he was going to leave. 

And he was going to leave. He was. And the first thing he would do is get himself a pickaxe and tear this little obsidian box apart brick by brick by brick by brick. 

So yes, Tommy was always going to be killed. But old Dream wouldn’t have done it like that, his fists sinking into his expression, breaking and spilling blood that stained the ground. Old Dream would have tossed him in the lava, because it was quicker and easier. Less effort and less pain for the both of them. 

But he didn’t. Instead he pounded his hands into his flesh, crushing him with every move, pinning him down with one hand, feeling everything like it was so far away, and yet so real, and so close. Tommy’s fingers grasping for purchase, pointlessly trying to fight back as he died with every hit, and Dream almost enjoyed it-- _ did _ enjoy it. 

Old Dream didn’t enjoy killing. He was good at it, great at it, and he did it often, but he never liked it. Never felt anything towards it than that it was a necessary thing he had to do sometimes. A necessary thing for his plan. 

Oh, but he liked it this time. He liked how he was a god holding life in his hands and crushing it down like it was nothing, but also the furthest thing from a god there ever was: a senseless barbarian who broke his own hand extinguishing someone’s light. 

His finger hurt like a bitch. Dream was tempted to put it in the water, wash away the blood, rub his scabs until the pain sharpened again, but he didn’t. He sat, and outside of the cage the lava was dripping. 

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

He wasn’t like old Dream anymore, that much was now clear. He was different, mangled and disfigured, a little like Tommy was, lying next to him.

He’s not a fool: he knows that he’s unraveling, spilling. He knows enough, is smart enough, to feel the strings of him being pulled, the carefully woven tapestry of his mind being tweezed apart, piece by piece by piece. But he didn’t care much. 

Dream was dead, at least the Dream from before was. They killed him. Beat him down into the ground and shoved him in a box. They shoved him in there and they said “there’s no way he’ll ever escape” and they were wrong, because he was going to escape. He would  _ always  _ escape, because he was a god, a barbarian, a monster who would rip apart his own mind just for the  _ chance  _ to leave. 

And now their poster boy was dead, and Dream wished he would stay that way, but he surely wouldn’t, because Tommy is an annoying little fucker, and he can’t shut up. He’ll be back, talking his annoying little words again, and Dream will be the one who brings him back, just like he was the one to tear him away, and that’s his way out. Which is unfortunate, because Tommy is annoying and he wished he would stay dead, rotting like Schlatt in the ground. 

But it won’t matter. Because by the time that happens he’ll be out. 

And the obsidian will stop crying. He’ll tear it down and stop it. Stop the dripping forever, permanently. 

And at that thought, Dream laughed. A real, maniacal laugh. He cackled and cackled and cackled, holding his chest, smearing blood all over his prison uniform, his long hair falling in front of his face. He laughed and laughed and laughed, and in front of him the little pool of purple began slivering down the cracks and corners of the obsidian floor, mixing with the pool of crimson next to it, the halo. And eventually he was panting, gripping his hair at the roots so hard that his knuckles were white, staining his head scarlet. 

But it was funny. It was funny because he was going to win this game. He was going to win against the corpse by his side and Sapnap and Bad and Sam and Tubbo and everyone. He would always win, because he was the only one of them willing to rip apart everything, himself included, to get what he wants. And he wants everything, so he’ll get everything, as long as he plays this game, as long as the story between him and bruised Tommy goes on. 

Which would be forever, because everyone knows their story will never truly be over. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, that stream was intense. Afterwards I couldn't help but wonder what Dream did when waiting for Sam to get the body, so here it is!
> 
> Also, I imply in the fic that Dream is going to use Tommy's death to get leverage out of the prison because I am like 98% sure that's what's going to happen. 
> 
> Hope y'all liked it lol


End file.
